The Death of a Boy

CHAPTER 1: DENIAL

"I know who I am," said the boy who did not know.

When Truth heard these words, as he all too often did, he roared into the room on his motorcycle, which came to a screeching halt as it skid in broadside in a giant cloud of smoke. The boy coughed. Truth dismounted. He seemed to move in slow motion as he walked up to the boy and casually leaned against a mirror, which had magically appeared there. A smirk danced across Truth's face and he shook his head as the boy forgot his shock altogether and instead admired his own reflection.

"How can you know who you are?" said Truth, though nobody asked him. He lit a cigarette and awaited the boy's response.

The boy's eyes narrowed in disgust. The boy never liked Truth that much and didn't talk to him very often. As far as the boy was concerned, Truth was a party pooper, and today was no exception.

Truth continued, "I'm not tryin ta be rude, kid. I'm just sayin... you've never been out in the real world. You've never cared about anyone else more than yerself. You've never paid the bills. You've never even had a full time job. How, can you know, who you are?"

None of that mattered to the boy. What mattered to him was the feeling of knowing who he was. And when you're young and dumb, you always feel good.

"So what?" said the boy. "I can still know who I am. I sing. I dance. I write. I act. I play the guitar, the ukulele, the drums, the harmonica, and the saxophone. I'm gonna be rich and famous one day! You just wait n see..."

"Okay..." said Truth. "That may be true. But as Aristotle once said, 'We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.' My question to you is, do you practice those things every day? Or are you just naturally good at them?"

"I'm just naturally that good," said the boy with a shrug as he brushed some imaginary fluff off his shoulder.

Truth rolled his eyes. It was gonna be another looong night.

"What do you do everyday?" said Truth.

"I -"

"Wait, don't tell me, I already know. Yer a pot smoker. Yer a beer drinker. Yer a socializer. And yer a masturbator. Typical. In yer defense, though, yer also a reader and a writer. But even those you don't do every day. Just most."

"You don't know whatchyer talkin about," said the boy. "I'm gonna do amazing things. They're gonna write books about me one day. They'll make movies about the boy from little ole Bedford, Indiana who defied all the odds and made it big. Maybe I'll even go down in history with all the other Greats like Genghis Khan and Napoleon and Dr. Martin Luther King."

Truth could see the stars in the boys eyes as he pictured himself bathed in glory, swarmed by beautiful women, and welcomed by thunderous applause wherever he went.

"Genghis Khan and Napoleon and Dr. Martin Luther King worked their asses off," said Truth, bursting the boy's bubble. "They gave up their friends. They sacrificed their relationships with their family members. They gave up everything they had in order to pursue their craft. Martin Luther King even gave up his life. What have you sacrificed? And by the way, what is yer craft?"

"I don't know, and what does it matter?" said the boy. "I don't wanna limit myself. If I can do it all, then why should I specialize in any one thing? I wanna be a jack of all trades."

Truth thought for a minute, then said, "I mean... You can be more than one thing, sure, but you have to be one thing at a time - hone one skill at a time - carefully and meticulously. You could start with your singing or dancing or acting."